The Samurai's Daughter (12 page)

“It is Sunday evening. You always come on Sunday evening for supper.”

“But—how did you know I was back?”

“Your father telephoned to remind us. Actually, we would have been happy to meet you at the airport, but he told us he thought you could manage.”

“Did he sound angry with me?” I asked.

“Angry? Of course he's not angry. Why, did you do some—misbehavior?”

“No, just the usual.” I pressed my lips together. “I'll see you tonight.”

 

At my aunt and uncle's place, a welcoming light shone over the door, and there was a large urn holding pine, bamboo, and plum—nature's trinity to celebrate the New Year. I was transported back to all the other New Year's times when I would go to see my aunt and uncle and cousin, when the kind of problems I had were with my job, not with my status as a free woman.

Of course, the door was unlocked. I slid it to the side and sang out,
“Tadaima,”
the traditional greeting that means “I'm home.” Technically, I shouldn't have said it, because I wasn't an actual household member, but I called it out because I was feeling hopeful. A quick patter of light footsteps, and my cousin Tsutomu, whom I thought of as Tom, was there. He liked me to call him Tom because it made him feel exotic. Japanese people all called him Tsutomu, or, more typically, Shimura-sensei—the honorific at the end marking his status as a doctor at St. Luke's International Hospital.

“Rei-chan.” He drew me into a swift, tight hug, then stepped back to look at me. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I'm just tired. I would have liked to rest from four o'clock on today, but I couldn't resist coming to Sunday night supper. Where's Chika-chan? Isn't she home for the holidays?”

“She's out with her friends,” Aunt Norie said, coming out of the kitchen to give me a hug. “She's been with us a week. Since she's so grown up now, she says this neighborhood is too boring—she wants to play in Tokyo every evening, and it's with a fast crowd from the Kansai area. Sending her to Kyoto was stupid—now she's trying to turn into a Kansai girl, obsessed with clothes and so loud,
ara
, you wouldn't believe the way she talks!”

Norie was referring to the classic divide between Eastern and Western Japan—the Kanto and Kansai regions. Kanto, the section that encompassed Tokyo and Yokohama, was regarded as stable and tasteful. Kansai, which was the seat of Japan's original capital, Kyoto, and its true business mecca, Osaka, was different. People in Kansai talked more loudly, and had their own slang; they spent more money on clothing, and women felt free to wear sexy shoes and more vibrant colors than their sisters in Tokyo. The Japanese said it was the combined forces of Kyoto's past royal image and the big money merchant culture of Osaka. I didn't know if this was true, but I couldn't fault a Yokohama girl for wanting to pick up some Kansai style. I hadn't seen Chika since she'd gone off to college three years earlier, so the change, I knew, might very well be dramatic.

“Chika will be here New Year's Eve, Rei, but don't worry about her right now,” Tom said. “You look so tense. Did something happen in America?”

“Let her come in out of the cold and relax before you interrogate her,” Aunt Norie chided, securing the bag of sesame crackers she had requested I bring. “Rei-chan, thank you so much for remembering.”

“A lot happened in California,” I said, stepping up onto the living room floor and giving my aunt a long, hard embrace. I'd missed her so much.

“Well, please inform us, Rei-chan. Your father only said that you were coming home at last.” My uncle Hiroshi came forward to greet me with a slight bow, rather than an embrace. It was awkward for him to embrace me—even if I was his brother's daughter. Hiroshi had thick salt-and-pepper hair just like my father's, but it didn't hang too low. It was cut neatly, the way most salarymen wore their hair. Hiroshi had worked for the same bank since college, then been made redundant after thirty-five years. Since then
he'd found new work in the business office of an electronics company, but he was not a section head, as he'd once been. This wasn't the way they'd expected Japan to treat them. Still, the prospect of Norie working to make up for the economic shortfall was unthinkable. My aunt had once tried to find a part-time job, but the only businesses interested in her skills were supermarkets. She preferred to teach
ikebana
classes, taking a token cash payment from each student. Besides, she was so busy cooking for her family, I thought, as I sat down with everyone at the cozy round dining table dominated by Norie's propane-powered tabletop cooker. After the cooker's flame glowed blue, she topped it with a large clay pot called a
nabe.
She had made
donabe
—a light, seafood-based broth into which we all dipped shrimp, clams, mushrooms, and scallions.

Eating the nourishing
donabe
gave me the rush of confidence I needed to begin to tell them I was engaged to be married. I was nervous because it had taken them well over a year to get used to Hugh the first time around, and then when we'd split, they'd blamed it all on him. But they were quietly positive, and Norie even volunteered to help me shop for the right hotel in which to hold the wedding.

“We're interested in a smaller gathering at a shrine,” I said. “I thought of the one in my neighborhood, if they'll have me, or another one that's important in Shimura family history.”

“Your aunt and I married at the Yasukuni Shrine,” Uncle Hiroshi said.

“Isn't that the right-wing shrine where people go to honor those who died in World War II?” I made my comment a question, for politeness's sake. I knew for a fact that the current prime minister had made a visit there, which had set off a firestorm of criticism from liberals, and praise from conservatives.

“It's the place where
all
who gave their lives to Japan over the course of our wars lie,” Hiroshi explained. “And since our old family household was nearby, it became the shrine where our family made donations and prayed.”

Norie put down her chopsticks. “It was fine for a wedding thirty years ago, when the political issues were quiet. But who
knows what the conditions are like now? When the prime minister visited, the whole world watched. It could be quite difficult for Hugh-san and Rei-chan, because I'm sure they will have hundreds of guests, some of whom wouldn't be comfortable.”

“I wouldn't marry there,” Tom said. “I would have a simple ceremony in Guam or Hawaii, followed directly by the honeymoon!”

“You're one to talk,” Hiroshi said. “No girl in sight, and you refuse to talk to the matchmaker your mother found for you.”

“Ah, I'll check with Hugh first,” I said, trying to deflect attention from my poor cousin, who at age thirty-two was getting old for marriage. “There's a slight chance he'll be flying in tomorrow.”

“Oh, then he must come for New Year's Eve,” Norie said, and then a general discussion of menu ensued. She would serve the traditional
toshi-koshi soba,
long buckwheat noodles meant to guarantee long life and happiness—my favorite—as well as the tiny sardinelike fish that you were supposed to eat whole—not my favorite. There would be fresh
mochi
cakes made from rice she'd pounded herself. Afterward, everyone would walk to pray at the neighborhood temple.

“You know, it sounds great, but he might be very, very tired upon arrival,” I said. I hadn't liked the way he'd pushed himself so hard when he arrived in San Francisco. “Can we let you know that day if we're coming? And before I forget, Uncle, I must ask you some family history questions. I recently learned there was a scroll signed by the late emperor that belonged to our family. Do you know anything about it?”

“Oh, yes. That letter actually came to my father. He was so proud when he received it that he would take it and hang it in the most important alcove of the house on the anniversary of his father's death.”

“That's interesting,” I said. “I wonder why that day.”

“Well, the scroll was actually a condolence letter about the death of his father—your great-grandfather, Shimura Kazuo.”

“How amazing!” I said. “What was the connection between Great-Grandfather and the emperor? They couldn't have been friends…”

“No, of course not.” Uncle Hiroshi smiled at me as he used his chopsticks to deftly dip a shrimp into the
donabe
. “Your great-grandfather was a renowned man of letters. He had met with Emperor Hirohito when he was young and had not yet ascended the throne. But the emperor remembered your great-grandfather many years later when he passed away. He wrote a beautiful letter of condolence that my father considered his most important possession. After his death, that scroll was passed on to your father, who was the eldest son.”

“I see.” I paused, knowing that what I'd say next might shock Hiroshi. “Actually, my father held on to the scroll until the mid-seventies, but at that point he decided to sell it to raise money to buy our house.”

“Oh! He never said anything to us about it.” Hiroshi stared at me.

“Well, the end result is it was bought by Showa College, and they have it safely stored in their archives. It's good, don't you think, that it's available to the public?” I was desperately trying for something to mitigate the act committed by my father.

“But it is our family heritage,” Hiroshi murmured. “Does he still have the family sword? Or did he sell that, too?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “He treasures that very much. It hangs in a place of honor on his bedroom wall.”

“Bedroom wall?” Hiroshi said, with a little laugh that didn't conceal his pain. “When my father owned the sword, it was specially displayed at our household altar at special times only. Every year my mother placed
mochi
cakes and an orange on a special plate in front of it.”

“I'll record that in the family history. Thank you, Uncle.” As I spoke, I noticed that Hiroshi had completely forgotten about the shrimp he'd dipped into the broth. Its floating body had curled up into a ball—which is what I wanted to do, too.

Monday morning, I was at the post office right as it opened, desperate for two months' worth of mail. Once I had it, my life could properly restart. The clerk was gone for a while, finally staggering back with two large crates. I dragged both boxes outside and flagged down a taxi to take me the quarter-mile home. The ride was short, but expensive. With a base price of close to $6 for merely entering a taxi, I was $10 poorer when I got out at home. The only mercy was that Japanese cabbies didn't expect tips.

Opening the door to my place, I heard the phone ringing. Why was it that when I was home, nobody called, and when I was out, everyone did? I raced up onto the tatami mats, forgetting about my shoes once again.

“Hello?” I said breathlessly.

“Anno, Idabashi desu ga…”

A Japanese man, sounding startled by my English, had begun to introduce himself. It took me a few moments to realize that this man, Mr. Shou Idabashi, was one of the detectives I'd called. He must have been like me, I figured, trying to take care of all his business before the New Year's holiday shutdown. I told him that I was looking for an aged relative of a friend. When I told him it was a foreigner, he sighed happily; foreigners weren't that hard to find, since they were all registered with the police.

“If Espinosa Ramon-san is still living, I can probably have his
data for you within a few days. How far must I follow the trail? I will interview the man if you want to stay out of the situation and maintain your privacy,” Mr. Idabashi said in polite Japanese.

I told the detective thanks, but I'd prefer to talk to him myself. He told me where to wire the advance payment, and I went straight out to my bank to do it. Then I returned home and made a call to Showa College, where the library department clerk said that yes, the letter existed, in the form of a scroll, and I could make an appointment to see it the next day. I hung up, triumphant. In twenty-four hours, I would know exactly what kind of business Emperor Hirohito had with my grandfather.

In the meantime, I'd work on the stacks of unpaid bills and invoices I'd brought home from the post office. I'd been able to prepay Tokyo City Gas and Nippon Telephone and Telegraph before my trip, but many other debts had accumulated. Fortunately, my bank statement showed evidence of two payments that clients had wired me while I was gone. I wasn't broke, because I'd been very careful with my expenses in America. The most expensive thing I'd purchased was a Gianni Versace men's belt, for my best friend Richard Randall, and if he were a gentleman, he'd reimburse me.

It was two o'clock, and I longed to put my head down on my pillow, but I knew that to beat the jet lag, I would have to stay awake. I dialed Richard at home.

“Can't wait to get together, sweetie, but I have to teach two classes first,” Richard said. “Why don't you meet me around nine-thirty at Club Isn't It. It's ladies' night, so you'll get in for free.”

“I'll fall asleep before that! Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow?” I pleaded.

“No, because it's New Year's Eve. I'll be running around buying booze for the party at Simone's. You're coming, right?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know about it. I've already got plans.”

“What, eating
soba
noodles with your aunt and uncle?”

“I was going to do that, but instead I'm waiting to see if Hugh makes it into town. I was thinking a bottle of champagne and fresh sheets on the bed would be enough for me.”

Richard sighed. “Rei, you're acting like an old woman—when do you turn thirty?”

“In the new year,” I said sourly. Richard was always rubbing it in that he was five years younger. I reminded him about his fancy belt, and that if he didn't come to get it, I'd spank him with it.

“Ooh, please. But I do want the belt for the party. Tell you what: I'll meet you at your place late tomorrow afternoon. I'll style you for Simone's party, and then we'll go.”

 

On New Year's Eve day, my appointment at the college library was set for ten-thirty. I was up at six, so I had plenty of time to exercise, wash, and even blow-dry my hair. At a quarter of ten, I was slipping on my shoes when the telephone rang. I had a suspicion it was my parents, so now I was stuck with a dilemma. Answer, and miss the train and be late for the appointment at the library. Not answer, and let the rift between us widen.

I picked up the phone, and it was Hugh.

“How did you get here so fast?” I asked.

“No time to explain. I don't want to miss the next train into the city, to get to you. Which train should I use, JR?”

“No, no, I live in the old section of town, so better take the Keisei Flyer to Keisei-Ueno Station. From there, just take a taxi to my apartment. Oops, you'd better not. I have to go out for a big appointment right now and I won't be back for a couple of hours.”

“How can we meet, then?”

I looked at my watch. “If you catch a train within the half hour, you'll be at the station by eleven-thirty. I think I could meet you at twelve. Could you amuse yourself playing pachinko or something?”

“My eyes wouldn't stay open. I think the best thing for me would be to get a coffee.”

“You can get one at the Royal Host in the station. I love you.”

I rushed off to Showa College with a lighter step and a happy heart. I beamed when I met Miss Tokuma, the librarian. She had a pleasant, round face that reminded me of a Japanese folk character called Binfuku. I had a little collection of Binfuku masks hanging in the entry to my apartment, but of course I couldn't tell her that. Instead, I praised her efficiency in locating the Hirohito scroll so quickly.

“I've followed its trail all the way from California,” I said. “I faced so many obstacles there, I thought I'd find them here as well. But you've agreed to see me on the last day of the year. That was very kind.”

“I have the scroll right here for you.” She held up a long acid-free cardboard tube. “We will view it together.”

She led me over to a window, where we sat at a table completely free of books or people. There was a little
RESERVED
sign on it, which made me think of restaurants. The sign must have had plenty of power, because all the other tables were overcrowded with young people reading, writing, and punching away at laptops. Some of the students were lying across their books, obviously asleep. Since it was school vacation time, I imagined that these were the few who had overdue papers. In Japan, there was a desire to clear debts before the New Year came. For these students' parents, the debts were financial. For the students themselves, the debts would be to their teachers.

Miss Tokuma indicated that I should sit down, so I did. She took a chair across the table from me and drew from the large cardboard tube a silk-covered cylinder that I guessed housed the scroll. Then she unrolled it, carefully placing four glass weights on each corner of the two-foot-long paper.

The paper was bordered in black, and its top was the pattern of a sixteen-petal embossed chrysanthemum. I'd seen this chrysanthemum carved into gates of the old Royal Palace in Kyoto, but nowhere else, until now. It was against the law for anyone but the royal family to wear, or display, the sixteen-petal chrysanthemum. A thrill ran through me. I kept darting glances back at the emblem as I slowly read what I could of the text.

The scroll was handwritten in a flowing calligraphy going from top to bottom and right to left. I made out a few words, but that was it. My reading level was still nowhere near an adult's. I recognized only the characters that formed my grandfather's name and a few other words.

Miss Tokuma had risen up behind me to read over my shoulder. She was silent for a while, then said, “The language is very special, of course, since the words are from the Showa Tenno himself.”

Miss Tokuma had used an expression that referred to the name of Hirohito's reigning period, instead of saying the name Hirohito.

“Tokuma-san, I'm really sorry, but as I mentioned to you before, I came from California.”

“Yes, yes, I understood.”

“I mean to say that I grew up abroad and regretfully never learned to read Japanese. I would be very grateful if you could make a photocopy for me and I could bring it to a translator.”

Her round face lost its jovial expression. “I'm sorry, but that's not possible. The paper is too fragile to spread out on the photocopy machine. It could be contaminated by trace elements left on the glass.”

Miss Tokuma began rolling up the letter. I wanted to grab it and hold on, but that would only have made her more nervous.

“Oh, I apologize for not understanding the situation. Could you translate it for me, please? I mean, if the calligraphy isn't too difficult to make out.”

She stiffened at that, and said, “Shimura-san, this is Showa Tenno's fine hand. Of course it is legible. It is a national treasure.”

I bowed my head. “Please, Tokuma-san, I have such poor Japanese. I long to understand the letter's content.”

“I would help you ordinarily, but please consider the situation. This is the last day of the year, and the library is quite busy. My duty is to return to the desk to help the many students needing assistance. It would be best if you come back in five days, after the New Year's holiday is over.”

She was lifting the weights off the exposed scroll, readying it to go back into its hiding place, when a shy voice spoke up.

“Excuse me. May I help?”

The voice belonged to a boy with close-cropped hair and tired-looking eyes. He looked all of twenty years old. I couldn't imagine how he could help until I realized he could, of course, read.

“If it's not too long, I can read it to you. I like to practice my English—I have oral examinations coming up.”

“Oh, how lucky for me,” I said. “And if you read it to me in Japanese, I would be happy to spend some time coaching you for your oral examination.”

“Silence is the rule in the library,” Miss Tokuma said. “However, if you keep your voices low, I will allow this student to do the translation for you.”

I thanked Miss Tokuma profusely and got down to business with the boy, who introduced himself to me as Yoshi Endo.

“Let's see,” whispered young Mr. Endo, taking the seat next to me. “It looks like this is a condolence letter—from the last emperor to someone called Shimura Junichi.”

“My late grandfather,” I said.

Mr. Endo raised his eyebrows. “Really? The letter is dated August fifteen, 1938, Hayama, Japan. That's where the imperial summer villa is,” he continued.

I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

Yoshi Endo read: “To Shimura Junichi-san, I offer my sincere regrets on the passing of your father, Professor Shimura Kazuo. As you know, your father instructed me in Japanese history and political theory for three years when I was a young prince. Your father had a depth of knowledge and a gift for clear explanation. Shimura-sensei also had a generous heart and a devotion to his country that is a model for all Japanese today. I will never forget the teachings of your father, and I pray that you will find peace at this difficult time.”

The student looked up from the scroll. “That's the end. Was Shimura Kazuo the father of Shimura Junichi?”

“That's right.” I said.

“Did you know him?” Mr. Endo asked, and then slapped his head. “Of course you didn't. This letter says he died in 1938!”

“Right,” I said absently. It was a few years before my father was born. His own father, Junichi, was a young professor at the time. With all that was going on politically, it impressed me that Emperor Hirohito had taken a moment to think of a teacher from the days of his boyhood. And the fact that my great-grandfather had taught him was fascinating to me. I hadn't known the emperor had taken classes at the University of Tokyo. It didn't seem natural for him to be taking classes with commoners, especially since there was a Peers' College for the noble and royal families of Japan to attend. Why had my great-grandfather taught him? What were the circumstances?

“I thank you so much, Endo-san. You can't imagine what this means to me,” I said.

“Shimura-san, you're very welcome. Actually, I'm the one who is honored. Why don't you bring your notes about the letter to the New Imperialists Club meeting! The others would be excited to learn something new about Showa Tenno.”

“Who are the New Imperialists?” I raised my eyebrows.

“It's the junior committee for the political group. People who love the emperor and dream of restored powers. If you're second-year or older, you can be nominated to join.”

He was talking about the right wing—the ones who wanted to give the current emperor more power and to make Japan's self-defense forces a regular military outfit capable of waging war in other countries. I tried to hide my shudder, because I understood that he had made his invitation out of nothing but goodwill—and the mistaken impression, which did flatter me, that I was a nineteen-or twenty-year-old sophomore. “Actually, I'm not a student here, so I don't think I could go.”

“All right. Well, nice to meet you, and happy New Year,” the student said, bobbing his head and standing as if to go back to his work.

But I hadn't forgotten my promise. “Happy New Year to you, but now, isn't it time to let me help you prepare for that oral examination?”